


Guide You Home

by tricksterity



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl is Murphy, Gen, ReunionFic, they are secretly badasses, with stupid fuckin' rope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sophia disappears, Daryl finds someone at the church from a life he thought he’d long since lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something because I think the lack of TWD/Boondock Saints fics in this world is disappointing.

Daryl was inwardly cursing at everyone around him as they moved further through the forest. Sophia had only been gone for barely past twelve hours and they were already wearing looks of defeat and exhaustion. The kid shouldn’t have come with them, he knew that, and if Carl got hurt or went missing as well the entire group would go ballistic and their leader, Rick, wouldn’t be in a right frame of mind to make logical decisions and he could get everyone else killed. It was much easier when it was just himself and his crossbow; nobody else could track like he did.

Carol was barely even thinking herself and was stumbling through the woods, her mind probably turning over all of the horrible things that could’ve happened to her little girl – killed, dying of starvation or thirst, kidnapped, turned into a Walker… the list was practically endless in an apocalyptic world. Daryl rolled his eyes and continued forward through the underbrush, his eyes and ears sharp. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for Sophia, it was actually quite the opposite, but having a huge hoard of people in a forest where anything could happen wasn’t the best idea.

Unexpectedly, a familiar sound of tolling bells echoed through the woods, and Daryl snapped his head up, thoughts tumbling over each other _there must be a church nearbwhy would they ring the bells it could attract walkeit could also attract anyone lostsophia could be in thereshepherds we shall be for thee my lord for theewe have to get there now be on the lookout for walkers_ and he took off towards the sound of the church bells. The rest of the group followed, and they ran full-pelt through the forest, chasing the sound of hope until they erupted into a clearing.

The church was small and definitely didn’t have a steeple, and it was surrounded by a graveyard full of names of the long-since dead, and Daryl wondered if they’d been turned in their graves too. Daryl remembered that he’d always liked zombie movies and thought that a real zombie apocalypse would be awesome but not without-

Daryl shook his head and stopped his train of thought right there, stamping it out with a grunt. Rick and Shane stepped forward and followed Daryl through the cemetery and up to the front door, the rest of the group following but trailing warily behind. Daryl slung his crossbow into his hands, arrow at the ready, and nodded to Rick, who was standing at the door. The cop pulled open the door and Daryl ran in, crossbow at the ready and trained on one of the four figures in the room. Three were in the pews and one was kneeling in front of the status of Jesus, head bowed in what could be prayer or could be death.

As Daryl came forward, he vaguely registered Shane and Rick entering behind him, as he only had eyes for the figure at the foot of the statue. It was somebody that he recognized, would recognize anywhere and even though the hair was a little longer than it used to be and the pea coat was tattered and dirty and ripped… Daryl knew who it was. His eyes flitted to the other three figures in the room, obviously walkers, and had a moment of sheer, utter panic as adrenalin arced through his veins, speeding up his thought processes. Had he been turned? Had he come into the church looking for salvation and was jumped by walkers, who ripped his skin off in chunks as he screamed out for his brother’s name and when he didn’t come, he lay down to die and was then reanimated as a brainless beast, cursed to live until someone shot him through the head? Daryl experienced sheer panic, something he hadn’t since those Russians had handcuffed his brother to the toilet all those years ago in Boston.

Then his logical mind caught up and made him see what was really in front of his eyes – the three walkers were slumped over in their pews, gunshot wounds to the back of the head, a recognizable caliber from the guns that they used to carry. Daryl lowered his crossbow and was barely feet away from the kneeling man, Daryl could hear quiet whispers of Latin in a voice he’d grown up with, had heard every day until they were separated and thought each other dead, he could see the edge of a tattoo on the man’s hand, one that Daryl had mirrored on the other, truth and justice.

“Connor?” he let out in a quiet voice, hoping and praying that it was and that he was alive and okay and not a fucking zombie. The man literally froze where he kneeled, and Daryl put down his crossbow onto a nearby pew and slowly walked towards him. He could see the Latin on his hand, the Mary on his neck and the rosary clutched between white-knuckled fingers. Connor’s eyes, that had been staring ahead with hope and uncertainty, now flicked across and connected with Daryl’s, and the redneck fell to his knees next to his brother.

“…Murph?” Connor gasped, and the two men simultaneously grasped each other’s faces, eyes shining with tears as they stared at the face of the brother they thought they’d lost. Murphy brought his head forward and pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar scent and presence of his brother as they found each other again under the eyes of the Lord.

Connor brought Murphy into his arms and clung to him like a lifeline, like an anchor and that was certainly what he was, and Murphy dug his fingers into the back of Connor’s coat.

“I thought I’d lost you, thought you were dead for sure or worse, Murph, and Da disappeared too, and I was alone and I thought you were dead, you were dead in my mind for so long and I missed you so much and I couldn’t sleep and-“

“I know, Conn, me too,” Murphy muttered, interrupting his brother’s mumbling as his words tumbled over each other in their haste to get out. Murphy felt warm tears on his neck and hastily blinked out his own. One had to be strong for the other, always, and now Connor needed him, like they both needed each other. Murphy ran a hand up through Connor’s hair and held his twin tight to him and found himself uncaring of anything except the fact that he was back in his brother’s arms, back with him, back with the other half of his soul where he should be.

Connor eventually pulled back with a bright, shining smile that Murphy hadn’t seen since before the whole apocalypse thing started, and Connor brought his thumbs up to wipe away his brother’s tears.

“You’re cryin’ over me, pathetic,” Murphy muttered, and Connor let out a laugh.

“You can talk, ya little shit, makin’ me think you were fuckin’ dead,” Connor huffed.

“Oh so now it’s my fault that you jumped off a fuckin’ building?” Murphy teased. “I thought you were the dead one!”

“No, I had my rope with me,” Connor said smugly. Murphy whacked him upside the head.

“You and your stupid fuckin’ rope,” Murphy cursed, but his smile didn’t leave his face and Connor let out another laugh. Murphy barely noticed as Rick and Shane came closer and the rest of the group had entered the church. Connor slapped a hand over Murphy’s mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it, and Murphy rolled his eyes.

“Mind telling me why you’re dressed like a total redneck, bro?” Connor asked.

“Mind telling us who this is and why you’re suddenly Irish?” Shane butted in, and Murphy rolled his eyes, causing Connor to snort.

“What else would he be?” Connor asked.

“They think I’m a Southerner,” Murphy replied. “Times like this people don’t take too kindly to foreigners, that’s why I’m dressed like a total redneck.”

“That’s actually quite smart, Murph, maybe you did learn something from me after all,” Connor teased, and Murphy shoved his brother down onto the ground. Connor laughed and kicked him, and soon the two were in an all-out wrestling match on the floor of the church, laughing and hitting each other in as many places as possible.

“OI!” Rick shouted in his policeman voice, and Connor and Murphy froze where they were, Connor with his arm wrapped around Murphy’s neck, legs tight around him as Murphy attempted to headbutt him, back pressed to chest. Murphy sighed and Connor let go of him, and Murphy held out a hand and hauled his brother up.

“What the hell is this?” Shane demanded.

“Well I’d say that it’s a fight between a guy who can fight like a badass and a guy who's so pathetic he can’t even get out of a fuckin' chokehold,” Connor teased, and Murphy whacked him on the arm.

“It’s called faking until I can bash your stupid face in with the back of m’ head, maybe rearranging your face would do you some good with the ladies,” Murphy teased back, and laughed as Connor punched him.

“Ladies, calm down,” Shane interjected.

“Fuck you, who asked you?” Connor spat. Shane angrily stalked forward with his fists clenched, and before he could even get a step toward him, Murphy-or-Daryl stood between them, eyes hard and challenging.

“You take one step towards my brother and I will not hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes,” he threatened. Shane looked at him in disbelief, but reluctantly backed down.

“Daryl, do you mind explaining what’s going on, please?” Rick asked. Murphy looked around the room and realized that everyone was looking at them in shock. Murphy sighed and stepped back so he was shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother.

“My name isn’t Daryl, it’s Murphy, and this is my twin brother Connor. We’re from Boston, Ireland originally, and we got separated just over a year ago… I thought he was dead,” Murphy explained.

“I thought Merle was your brother?” Rick asked.

“Nah, he was jus’ someone who took me in after I nearly offed m’self,” Murphy said cheerfully.

“You didn’t?” Connor asked in disbelief.

“Yes I did ya idiot and I ain’t talking about it so shut yer trap,” Murphy muttered. Connor grumbled back something about God not appreciating suicide victims, and Murphy snorted. Rick was silent as he stared at the two brothers, his eyes raking over their faces and tattoos until some sort of light came on in his eyes.

“What’s your surname?” he asked.

“MacManus, why?” Connor asked, and Rick and Shane snapped their heads to look at each other, and there was a bit of muttering from the rest of the group.

“You’re the Saints, aren’t you?” Rick asked. Murphy raised his eyebrows and looked to Connor who had practically the same expression on his face.

“Oh yeah… I nearly forgot about that,” Connor drawled, and Murphy snorted.

Suddenly the bells chimed again, interrupting what Shane was going to say, and everyone ran outside to find that the sound was coming from some speakers, hence why the church didn’t have a steeple. Glenn disabled it, and Murphy and Connor headed back inside the church. They didn’t say a word to each other as they approached the statue of Jesus and kneeled down in front of him, and Murphy pulled out his rosary that he kept hidden under his shirt. There were shuffles from behind them, indicating that there were others filing in, but they paid no attention as they bowed their heads, shoulders and thighs touching as they clutched their rosary, and the words flowed from their lips.

 _“And shepherds we shall be_  
 _For thee my Lord for thee_  
 _Power hath descended forth from Thy had_  
 _Our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands_  
 _So we shall flow a river forth to Thee_  
 _And teeming with souls shall it ever be  
_ _In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti.”_


End file.
